


Zanna

by SLunne



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Child Neglect, Episode: s11e08 Just My Imagination, Gen, Growing Up, Imaginary Friends, Young Dean Winchester, Young Sam Winchester, Zanna
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-10
Updated: 2018-03-10
Packaged: 2019-03-29 13:46:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13928346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SLunne/pseuds/SLunne
Summary: "There’s a child, sitting in the perfect center of a decaying bed, his eyes staring at him with uncertainty and mistrust. That’s not entirely unusual, the sort of children he normally appears to are often out of place. The child doesn’t speak or respond much when he appears. That’s not unusual either, but the bundle wrapped up in the boy’s lap, certainly is."Sam wasn't the only one who'd had an imaginary friend as a child.





	Zanna

There’s a child, sitting in the perfect center of a decaying bed, his eyes staring at him with uncertainty and mistrust. That’s not entirely unusual, the sort of children he normally appears to are often out of place. The child doesn’t speak or respond much when he appears. That’s not unusual either, but the bundle wrapped up in the boy’s lap, certainly is.

He tries to smile, sitting cross-legged on the other bed, nearly folding himself over to try and appear smaller. Non-threatening. But the boy’s arms tighten, his eyes grow harder with an unmistakable protectiveness, a look that is unnerving on such a small face.

There’s been trauma. He’s been doing this long enough to know. There’s dirt on the boy’s face, black interrupted by lines of tears that have long since dried. His superiors told him this boy had survived a house fire some days ago, but in the expanse of a week, it looked like no one had cared for him in the slightest.

Slowly, careful not to make any sudden movements that might scare the boy even more, he observes the room. Empty bottles of whisky lay cracked on the floor, a pizza box is collecting flies, and there’s no sign of a car in the parking lot outside the window.

Meaning this child has been left alone with an _infant_.

Anger twangs righteously in his stomach, but he’s had practice in keeping it out of his face. The child is so tightly wound already, the last thing he wants is to make him more afraid. So instead he sits still, establishing his presence as unobtrusively as he can manage, allowing the boy to become adjusted to him.

It takes a while, but the child’s attention eventually shifts back to the baby he’s holding, his arm out at an awkward angle to support the head. He figures it’s the most relaxed the boy is going to get, and he decides to take a chance.

“So you’re a big brother, huh?”

He’s careful to keep his voice low and quiet, but the boy still flinches at the sound of his voice. He looks up to meet his eyes, still mistrustful, but the boy gives the tiniest nod. He takes it as a good sign.

“What’s your name?”

The boy’s face falls at this, curling into himself and around the baby even more, and he shakes his head. He can feel his heart starting to clench at the sight.

“So you don’t feel like talking? That’s okay,” he says, but before he can say anything else, the baby wakes, immediately letting out a loud wail as he twists in his brother’s arms.

The boy’s face goes ashen as he tightens his arms, struggling to keep a hold of the unhappy baby. All of a sudden, he can see the darkness under the boy’s eyes that didn’t come from the dirt, and the way his arms are trembling speaks volumes towards the boy’s exhaustion. The boy’s eyes are wide and panicked, and for a moment they pierce him as they fill up with tears.

Without thinking, he kneels down on the floor, leaning over them both as he brings his hand up to help the boy support the baby’s head. “Here, its okay, he’s okay, he might just be a little hungry.”

It only takes a moment to produce a bottle, but the boy pulls his brother back, looking for all the world like he wants nothing more than to run away. But the baby’s cries are growing louder, and the boy doesn’t move to stop him as he slowly puts the bottle to the baby’s mouth.

The boy’s eyes widen further when his brother latches onto the bottle, the baby’s cries ceasing. He kneels there on the floor, holding the bottle as the baby feeds, feeling some of his own tension leave his body.

After a few moments, the boy’s hand comes up to meet his on the bottle, and a look of resolve has come over the boy’s still teary face. Slowly, the boy’s takes the bottle from him, and he allows it, noting how much more at ease he becomes when he’s solely the one feeding his brother.

Its beautiful and unnerving, and something deeply disconcerting settles into his stomach, even as he gently instructs the boy how to hold the bottle best. This was the beginning of something, something fundamental, he could feel it in his bones. He should be coaxing the boy into speaking, comforting him through his trauma, teaching him how to have fun again. Instead, he was showing him how to take care of his younger brother. It felt… _wrong_. But these boys were here alone, and what else could he do?

Over the next few months, the pattern continues. Instead of providing the boy with a friend, he becomes a teacher, showing Dean how to fix a bottle, change a diaper. Dean rarely has help from their father, who was so deeply in mourning that he hardly seems to notice either of his children, even when he is around. And every day his young eyes harden and age. Soon, there is no longer a child looking back at him through Dean’s eyes, which means he can’t stay to help much longer.

It wasn’t fair. He wanted to scream, rage, do something, _anything_ to take away the burden from this child. Yet he’d been the one to help him pick it up. He’d _had_ to, there’d been no other option. He’d had to in order to _save him_.

But saving him didn’t mean helping him. It didn’t mean preserving his childhood. The boy was too “old” for imaginary friends now. He’d lost that childish optimism and hope for a life better than what he already had. All there is now is responsibility, taking care of his brother, helping his father. He’s forced to leave Dean, even though the boy needs a friend now more than ever.

He’s reassigned, off to the next child who needs him. But the guilt stays forever with him.

Years later, it isn’t a surprise when the younger brother needs a friend. Sully is a good match for Sam, optimistic and filled with wonder; Sully is a true friend in a lonely world. But Sully would become so frustrated, with Sam’s older brother the “germ,” angry with his adult attitude and Sam’s devotion to him.

He wants to explain it to Sully, how a child had been forced to become a parent. How unfair it was to Sam, how cruel it was to Dean to have such an impossible burden at such a young age. But Sully doesn’t understand it, no one could possibly understand, not unless they’d witnessed it. That little boy, who’d never had a chance.

And yet, Dean’s friend knew, that child had grown into a hero.

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for Seasons, a Supernatural fanfiction anthology. 
> 
> Feel free to come find me on tumblr!
> 
> maaahksheppard.tumblr.com


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